


the things which made him brave and kind

by shitbricks



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blake is stabbed non-fatally, Eventual Smut, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22973956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shitbricks/pseuds/shitbricks
Summary: Dulce et decorum est / Pro patria moriBlake finds his way back to Schofield, and together they unlearn the old lie.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 13
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

The first sense that cuts through Will is the overwhelming stench of rot, a complex decay that subtly reminds him of home — the odors that wafted up the from sewers in hot gusts that drifted through his window cracked open with a stack of books to relieve the claustrophobic summer heat — but this ghost of a memory provides him no comfort. This decay didn’t come with the promise of a breeze and get quickly replaced by the quiet rap of his mother’s hand on the door, entering with a plateful of hot eggs and tea. This smell was layered, if Will had enough time or the strength of mind he could identify the different sources of the scent — shit and piss overflowing in the latrines a few yards away, the molding tatters of his putties saturated in muck, death of course, slowly deteriorating horses and the hundreds, perhaps thousands of other boys, lying still across no man’s land that have piled into stinking heaps. A shrill whistle breaks Will out of his reverie, some voice of whatever authority is screaming, and he grasps the tendrils of his thoughts and shoves them inside the well-worn lockbox at the back of his mind, and scrambles up over the side of the trench. 

Grasping his rifle, Will begins his familiar run across the drenched soil, and hears the choked gasp of the boy who was perched next to him behind the frontline— _Philip, perhaps_ — as he is immediately littered with bullets, probably from some German sniper. He doesn’t bother to look back. 

He can’t even see, not really, all he can do is smell, that ever-present fucking smell that stings every inch of his skin and makes him want to rip off all his clothes and scratch off his skin like a bloody loon until he feels something other than the acidic burn. _Shit._

The battered earth suddenly falls out from under his feet, and there’s no sense of reality other than the whack of ground against his bottom and the ache of his head rattling around in his helmet. 

Wiping the dirt from his eyes, Will blinks rapidly, feeling all at once peaceful in an almost-drunken haze, quickly assessing his surroundings: the usual muck and filth, he was sitting in a watery ditch, probably ten or so feet deep, most likely made from some artillery shelling from weeks before. He feels a shuddering breath escape him, and mindfully assesses his body for wounds. Nothing more than the dull ache of his tailbone from falling ass-backwards down the pit. Inexplicably, Will felt a laugh bubble up in his throat at his foolishness. While other boys, younger than him, were above him running, throwing grenades, feeling every bit of shrapnel rip through their stomachs and grasping at their leaking bodies, trying to hold their insides in their proper place, here he was, with a bruised behind at the bottom of a pit with short breathless laughs spilling from between his lips. 

“ _Ah…_ Bitte.” 

Will scrambled back at the whimper, pushing himself back further against the soaked wall of the hole, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears, he turned toward the noise, rifle already pulled snug in that oh so familiar position. 

When his eyes focus — his eyesight was never quite proper, but has deteriorated even further since volunteering — he finally targets the source of the sound. It’s a boy. A handsome young man, Will notices, even with the mottled purple and yellow bruising along his jaw and the furrow of his eyebrows. The faded red lining on the boy’s uniform makes Will swallow tightly. He instinctively clutches his finger against the trigger of his rifle, it’s easy enough, but the stillness of the boy in response makes him pause. 

The boy had lost his helmet, and his brown curls clung to his forehead in a mixture of sweat and blood and filth. He gazed over at Will with wide eyes, not hollow like some of the other Germans he encountered in close quarters like this right before they lunged at him. His eyes were full of fear, a horror so distinct it tossed off the walls of language and Will felt it screaming like an incoming missile in his skull. He had no weapons, Will observed after a quick scan of his hands that hugged desperately to his stomach. Wet crimson dripped out over his arms, pooling on his already filthy trousers. Even through the wall of sound above them, he could hear the boy was whispering. 

“ _O Gott, dessen eingeborner Sohn durch sein Leben, seinen Tod und seine Auferstehung uns die Belohnung des ewigen Lebens verdient hat, verleihe uns, wir bitten dich, daß wir, indem wir die Geheimisse des heiligen Rosenkranzes der—_ ” Ah, a Catholic, Will noted. He didn’t need to know much German to parse that. 

Will feels frozen, staring at the boy as he gasps out silly little bits of prayer he probably imagines will save him, grant him relief in some supposed next life. The small silver cross around his own neck, tucked tidily under the layers of his uniform, sears against his chest like the hot metal of a spent machine gun. His hands twitch to pull it out and hold it delicately between his fingers, like he did back home when he heard the wet explosion of coughs from across the house, first from Mother, quickly followed by Father as they succumbed to the sickness and were hauled away, pale and half-choking on their own phlegm to an infirmary. He never saw them again. He ignored the urge, it didn’t save them, and God didn’t answer anyone’s prayers out here either it seems. 

Despite his better judgement, Will crawls slowly to the pitiful boy, his hand never too far off from something to gut him with if he made any quick move, half-expecting the boy, which he determines is no older than eighteen, to suddenly morph into the monstrous brute they were supposed to imagine all Germans were and knife him with a smug grin. Will wouldn’t be that fool. 

The boy stayed still as he approached, his skin paling rapidly, blood still pouring like syrup out of his gut. He neared the boy, close enough now to notice the tear stains carving paths through the mud crusted on his cheeks. Will wondered what he looked like before the war, before his round face was beaten with months of almost-starvation and daily brutality. 

_The girls must have loved him._ Will flinched at the thought, scrapping the vision that appeared unwarranted in his mind of this unknown foreign boy, sitting around a table with his friends, laughing, tussling with each other, his cheeks flushed, brushing his wild curls out of his eyes. 

“Mama, bitte. Mama Ich habe solche Angst. Bitte. Mama, bitte. Es tut weh, bitte, bitte, _bittebittebitte_ ,” the boy’s whispers devolve into pitiful cries and hiccups as his whole body begins shaking, his arms falling from his stomach and his wounds expose themselves to Will.

He doesn’t react, not outwardly, to the grotesque sight, the clean slice of the boy’s soft stomach revealing the full extent of his wounds. Will has seen this everyday, _it’s fine_ , _it doesn’t matter_ , he reminds himself calmly. 

Then, out of nowhere, the boy’s hand reaches over and grabs Will’s wrist, and he flinches, ready to wrench away from a hidden dagger the enemy had tucked away under his blood-soaked tunic, but the shaking, gentle touch of his hand makes him still. They lock eyes, and understanding emerges between the two, or at least Will imagines so. A lump forms in his throat, as tight and deadly as a bullet. 

_Yes, this is easy, this is what you’re here to do, this is your job._

Words ring over and over in his ears as he reaches for his pistol, one he nabbed off a dead Jerry he shot a few weeks back during another push, the cold weight of it made his arms feel as if he was carrying sandbags. He breathes in, and his mind clears, shooing away all stray screaming thoughts, a skill he has refined over the past few months, something Will feels quite proud of. At the click of the hammer, the boy closes his eyes, with a look Will assumes is peace, and a shot rings out, drowned out in the vast sea of sound in no man’s land.

As his hands begin to shake, the world once again turns sideways, but this time Will’s eyes go dark but his mind is screaming with confusion, his entire body begins to ache and he feels blood welling up out of little scrapes all over his body, and Will realizes he _can’t breathe_. He’s drowning but there’s nowhere to swim, there’s nothing to grasp onto, he’s pummeled, covered, his throat lined with what feels like gunpowder, his lungs are convulsing. 

Then, he hears his name, called by some familiar voice, but he can’t discern it over the heaving of his body. The voice gets draws nearer, and he can tell it’s urging him, but he can’t tell what, but it’s yelling at him and Will’s caught between needing to hear, and giving in to the roaring of blood in his ears. 

Something grabs his shoulders, through whatever was trapping him from all sides. _Where am I? Where am I?_ His whole body feels limp, but he knows he must stand, the voice is telling him too, probably. He knows he has to, he wants to listen. His legs shakily get a holding, but he still can’t see, his insides feel like they’re being scratched by thousands of tiny razors tearing him from the inside out. 

“You keep hold of me. We need to keep moving. Come out!” The voice flicks a switch in his mind. 

_Oh._

He grips onto the other’s hand with an iron grasp, and forces his legs to move. He isn’t going to die, he can’t, he just needs to hold on. 

The feeling under his feet shifts again and suddenly Will’s on his knees, and he’s blinded by the midday sun, his lungs are clear, and the soft wet dew of the French countryside seeps through the knees of his trousers. His hands are wet too, he looks down from the sky, surprised by the sudden warmth and light, to the heavy form cradled into him. Blake is shaking, looking up at him, his eyes full of fear, _oh God he looks so young._

Will controls his breathings, staring down at his hands, grasping Blake’s that clutch at the stab in his side, both their hands are soaked in his blood. He’s lightly tracing his fingers over Blake’s, his mind is racing. 

_No. No, no, no nononono. What happened? What’s happening?_ For some reason he can’t remember. 

“Am I dying?” Blake asks softly, his voice sounds raw. 

Will’s jaw clenches, he can’t bear it. He stares down at the wound in Blake’s side, his flesh pierced to his far left side, the blood still streaming out and beginning to drip onto the grass. It was deep, but it could be fixed. It had to be fixed. He won’t allow it, they had to stop the attack, they had to save Blake’s brother. Will breathed in, and the storm of thoughts calmed. 

“No. We’re getting you up, we’re going to patch you up, and we’re finding your brother,” Will struggles to stand, pulling Blake’s drooping form up with him, his whole body shaking. 

“No, no, no! Please stop, please. It hurts, stop. Just let my lie down. Go ahead, I’ll catch up with you. _PLEASE_ stop,” Blake begs, squirming in his grip, his face pulled taut in pain. 

“No, we can’t stop. We’re going to save your brother, just like you said. We’re going to be okay. Trust me, please trust me,” Will begs, his voice level as he continues to drag his limp body across the grass. 

_Come on, you bastard, I won’t let you die. Not you._ Will furrows his brow, his body aching for relief. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, there was no one here to save them. But he just couldn’t let Blake die. He couldn’t. He’s seen countless deaths throughout this war, and dealt out plenty of it himself. He normally accepted it with a controlled aloofness. But this he simply could _not_ allow. 

As if his silent appeals were heard, by some God, Will wasn’t sure, the gruff shout of an astonished man was heard from behind him. He knew they were friends without even looking back. He knew Blake wasn’t destined to die today, not yet. 

“Oh, shit, what the hell happened to him?” an officer, along with a few other men rushed behind Will, grabbing at Blake’s sagging form, his breathing shallow. Will continues stumbling forward, now with the support of the other men as they lead him past the ransacked farm house. 

“He was stabbed, we have to help him,” Will grunts out. He stares down at Blake’s body, not taking his eyes off him to address the others, a small voice in his mind telling him if he looks away for even a second, his friend’s breathing will halt and it’ll be all Will’s fault.

“Alright, then lad. We’re just ‘round the bend,” the officer said, pulling one of Blake’s legs further into his arms. 

As they hobbled around the corner, Will heard the shouts and jeers of other men getting closer, and the low hum of trucks he hoped held at least one medic. 

“We need a medic here, now!” the solider carrying Blake’s right side barked over his shoulder. 

The dozens of milling soldiers broke out of their idle chat, a few of them running over as they carefully lowered Blake’s form to the grass. 

Will grasps Blake’s side still, pressing a hand against his wound, desperately trying to keep the blood in Blake’s body, feeling utterly useless. The soldiers gathered around Blake’s body, Will felt their eyes burning into his back, staring at his hand grasped firmly in Blake’s. He gritted his teeth.

“Someone fucking _do something_ , or he’s going to die,” he struggled to keep a level-voice. He hates these people, their stupid stares, why aren’t they doing anything? 

“He’s a goner, mate…” One solider offers, placing a hand on Will’s soldier.

“Oh God..” Blake whispers, a tear leaking down his cheek. 

Will rips out of the man’s grip, swinging around, the heat in him nearing the boiling point, his hands are shaking but he can’t let go of Blake. 

A stern looking soldier with a red cross badge pushes past the man Will was ready to pummel into the dirt, leaning down next to Will, immediately looking over Blake’s body. 

“It’s alright, it’s alright. We’re going to do what we can. Now help me bandage him up with what I have here,” the man says, he has a Cockney accent, and reminds him of his father. He feels his shoulders relax slightly. 

“We’re going down to the new line to give reinforcement to the Newfoundland’s,” the captain speaks over Will’s shoulder. “We can take you with us... And if he survives the trip, place him in a proper medical station.” 

Will nods, swallowing dryly, still running his thumb over Blake’s hand as the medic hastily cleans his wound and asses the damage.

Blake’s eyes are half-lidded, and his sudden tight grip on Will’s wrist almost makes him pull away. 

“Scho, please. You have to go ahead, you have to find my brother. Please,” he licks his chapped lips and takes a gasping inhale. “Tell me you know the way,” they lock eyes and Will forces his face into a reassuring smile. 

“I’m going to head south east until I hit Ecoust. I’ll pass through the town and out to the east, all the way to Croisilles Wood. I’ll find the 2nd, I’ll give them the message, and then I’ll find your brother… Just like you, a little older.” 

Blake nods softly, giving him a smile. Will felt a fire light in his stomach. _He was going to make it._

Then, Will falls through the world again, into darkness, out of reality, until only the sounds of gunfire, German prayer, and the drench of blood and muck fall away. He’s floating in a pitch dark pool, but unlike this blindness from before, he can breathe just fine. He can see his whole life, from before, everything that’s happened. When he broke his wrist falling in the street while playing with other boys from his block, how they laughed at him as he held back tears. His father’s laugh as Will paraded around, stumbling in his giant army boots that came up almost to his hips, being picked up and placed on his knee and told he was a brave little soldier. Enlisting, wanting to find pride in it, wiping away his sister’s tears, the silent walk to the enlistment office with her husband. A young French girl with a softly cooing child who had no name. A burning feeling in the back of his skull. His hands around a young boy’s throat as he felt him go limp. A song floating out over the forest, drawing him closer and closer. Now he was floating up through the still black water, he saw a light towards the top, but as he approached it, his stomach began to turn and he found he wanted to scream, but nothing came out but dust.

Will turned over, scrambling out of his tent to vomit bile onto the grass outside. 

_Ah, a dream. Of course._

Will wiped the snot and vomit from his face, taking deep breaths as his mind recovered from the whiplash of being thrust from the memories that were always waiting when he closed his eyes, to the world of now. 

“ _Eugh_ … Fucking disgusting, mate,” his tent mate, another Lance Corporal — Jameson — says as he peaks his head out, blinking groggily at him. “Well, at least you made it outside the tent this time!” he says through a yawn. Will grimaces, Jameson was alright, but his breath always stinks and he thinks he’s funnier than he actually is. 

Will says nothing.

Jameson stands up and stretches, scratching at his chest through his stained underclothes.

“Cheer up, another beautiful day on the French countryside. Let’s enjoy our time out here, fuffing about eatin’ stale bread and jam. We’ll be with the others soon enough,” he pats Will on the back as he begins to sit up. Will stares out to the trenches, the entrance only a mile or so from where he was sitting. 

He looks down at his hands, wiping them on his legs, although he knows there’s nothing on them. It has been two weeks since he’d completed the mission, and called off the attack, only to be shipped back on the nearest truck. Two weeks since he’d left Blake in that truck to God knows where, not truly knowing if he’d survive. Two weeks he’d spent in rest camp, he was graced with more time than others in reward for his work, and of course with another bit of tin and ribbon for his trouble. Soon enough, he’d be called back to the trenches. 

Will stares blankly down at his fists, observing his knuckles turn pale. His mind far off, down the line, daring to imagine Blake lying down in a tent somewhere, smiling and drinking tea, rubbing the stitches that hold him together, living the life Will was determined to give him. 

_Please._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Blake stage left

In the past two weeks back at the line, Will spent most of his days separating himself from the endless hum of life in a war zone. Even separated by over a mile of unscorched land, the days are filled with the constant bark of orders and mindless chatter, and the distant roar of air plane engines. 

Sometimes, in the dead of night, Will awoke to the sound of distant explosions — and for a split second Will forgot himself and believed fireworks were being set off outside his window, like they would every so often back at home. He would pad over barefoot and force open his window, sticking his legs out over the sill to stare up into the sky to watch the edge of fireworks over the top of the building across the street from the apartment he lived in. He liked seeing the fireworks, from his part of the city, Will could only see a few stars in the sky, and watching the multi-colored fountains of light rain through the night he would pretend it was a shower of falling stars

After over twenty-two years of never-ending noise, Will soaked in all the silence he could find. But not sterile, suffocating silence. The embracing quiet one finds in nature— the airy shake of wind through the leaves of trees, birds calling out for their mothers — it had a way of clearing Will’s head and, embarrassingly, provided a refuge from the barrage of well-meaning compliments and questions he faced since he came back. He didn’t have anything to say. Not to them anyway. But rather than be rude, Will spent every moment he wasn’t required to be accounted for at what was loosely considered the edge of rest camp. Most soldiers only ventured out into the treeline to take a piss or vomit into the bushes, so other than accidentally spooking a few privates running to relieve themselves, most of his afternoons were spent laying against a smooth-barked tree, counting the deer that occasionally grazed through the open countryside in the distant meadow, simply thinking, remembering mostly. 

It’s only 2 o’clock, Will assumed as he squinted up at the sun, and he’d already counted ten deer. Three different groups: two families of four and a duo of young bucks who he watched play fight through the yellow grass as their velvety horns struck against each other in noisy cracks.

Will picked at his allocated lunch rations, a typical delicacy — a piece of stale (but, pleasantly mold-free) bread and a half-finished jar of plum-and-apple fruit preserves. Will’s mouth puckered as he spooned another bite of sticky-sweet fruit mush into his mouth, and vowed to never eat another plum again after the war is over, not for anything.

Despite the withering growl of his stomach, Will set down his can and wiped a smear of syrup with the back of his sleeve. He stared down at the litany of stains smudged across the fading green of his fatigues. In the midday light, he could differentiate between the litany of stains he’d accumulated since he was handed his uniform over two years ago. He picked at a sticky black drop of preserves crusted on his sleeve, Blake had left it there on the first day they met, back before summer began to fade to autumn and their breathing didn’t flume out over their heads like small campfires. 

It was only four months ago, if Will’s math was right, that he first met Blake. Will was stationed on this strip of France for only a few weeks when his unit suffered losses on their first day rotated back to the frontline, wiping out almost half of the men, some he’s known since training camp. The next four days Will spent mostly half-crouched up to his ankles in mud, only moving to swat away rats that crawled down the trench walls or fire rounds indiscriminately into no man’s land when he was commanded, his vision too blurred from sleep deprivation to attempt any accuracy. 

When the poor remains of men left when they finally rotated back to camp for rest were greeted with fresh-faced replacements already waiting for them. The disparity between the men of the replenished unit was apparent from the moment they hobbled into camp, Will himself nursing a small shrapnel wound in his left calf that he had to pick out the night prior. The replacements were fresh meat, Will could tell by their voices — they talked rowdily, boasting and competing like schoolyard children. Will walked a wide circle around them, simply taking his tent assignment and going to rest until dinner rations were distributed.

He first laid eyes on Blake in line for food, his loud, boyish laugh in his ear making Will abruptly turn over his shoulder. His head ached from days of constant shelling, and his ears rung at the stupid boy’s piercing voice. Upon seeing him, he felt a thorn twist slightly in his heart. His face was still full, and from Will’s quick glance he could tell his face was unmarred from life’s troubles. Many boys, no matter how fresh they were to a war zone still carried the physical burdens of life before enlistment. This wasn’t exactly a playing ground for the posh types or urban elites, their place was behind desks shining their medals and pointing at maps. In his brief glance, Will already knew everything he needed to gauge this guy. 

_Won’t last long._

The rest of his time slowly crawling up the food line, despite his best efforts to pointedly ignore him, Will is tuned in to the boy’s boisterous voice.

“—then, ‘round mile nine, my shoes were already beginning to rot off my feet, so I shout down the line asking if anyone wants to trade, and would you _believe_ that bastard Lieutenant Weston storms over and smacks me across the head, and is spittin’ and hollering in my face like a mad dog,” he broke into barks and snarls before devolving into giggles with the other four boys gathered around him. 

“He wouldn’t be so keen on hating you if you hadn’t pissed in his boots in the first week of training,” another soldier laughed. 

“Well he shouldn’ta made me scrub the latrines on my first night for no reason,” he grumbled as the others broke into even louder cackles. 

Will’s skull throbbed and he ground his teeth, focusing his eyes at the man’s head in front of him. He could usually brush off the boastful chatter of new soldiers, they just didn’t know, but the ringing in his ears was reaching a maddening level. He wanted to be selfish, wanted to see someone else hurt. 

As they approached the front of the line, groans started to spill out of the mouths of other men.

“It’s all we got, sorry boys,” said one of the men slopping barely half a cup of Maconochie into a tin and handing it to Will. His nose twitched at the smell rising from the poor excuse for soup, but Will was thankful to at least eat something hot.

“There’s not enough for the rest of this to go ‘round, so we’ll have to ration the lot,” another man said gruffly.

Will moved to turn around and plop down in some patch of grass and eat his luke-warm mush in peace, but as he turned, catching sight of the boy’s face made him halt.

“No way this is it, what do you expect us to eat them?” The boy fumed, staring down at his bowl that held barely a ladle of soup.

“First day here and they’re already starving us, don’t need the bloody Germans,” he grumbled, and Will felt a wire snap in his mind.

“Consider yourself lucky, you won’t be vomiting it up later like the rest of us,” Will shot over to him, trying to keep his voice level.

At Will’s jibe, the boy looked up with a quirked eyebrow, quickly locating him as the source of the remark. They locked eyes, and after a moment of intensity — both of them sizing each other up — his eyes softened and a small smile appeared on the other boys face. Will wasn’t sure how to react.

“I suppose you wouldn’t mind sharing then,” he shot back smartly. He began walking over to Will, much to his — and the boy’s friends — surprise. Fresh soldiers to the front were rarely this bold, even if they were cocky, they tended to show their stomachs if put under fire by a man that’s been in combat longer. 

Will glanced at the boy’s uniform, taking in the patches on his sleeve — Lance Corporal — the same as him. 

Will maintained neutral eye contact with him as he approached, feeling his shoulders tense at the possibility of a confrontation. But as he strolled over, the boy’s face still held that uneven smile, and Will could tell there wasn’t any malice in his stance. Still, he couldn’t let his guard down.

“It may not be good, but that doesn’t mean I’ll share. It isn’t all I’ve got,” Will sniffed, breaking his gaze to look down at his bowl, and then the contents of the other boy’s. They were both meager portions, but at least his held enough to slightly curb the sharp ache of hunger in his stomach. 

“Oh — you have other things to eat then?” The boy’s eyebrows shot up, “Come on then, it’s only my first night, take pity on poor fellow Tommy,” he said cheekily, taking a step closer to Will.

_Bloody presumptuous, aren’t you?_

Will opened his mouth, but sat in dumbfounded silence for a few seconds, staring at this boy. 

“Oh, Blake, leave him be,” one of his friends spouted from a few feet behind, his eyebrows knit in concern.

_Blake, then._

“Fine then, I hope you like fruit mush, don’t have much else,” Will grumbled out, shaking his head at the odd burn he felt on his cheeks. He glanced up at the sun overhead, staring accusingly. _Yes, must be that._

The boy’s — Blake’s — eyebrows shot up at that, and his smirk morphed into a full-faced smile. He had one dimple dotting his right cheek, Will observed. 

“Oh, really? Well, if you’re offering,” Blake said. 

_No, you demanded, actually._

Will shrugged, turning away and motioning with a nod for Blake to follow. It really wasn’t a big deal, it’s good to be nice to the replacements — he glanced back to make sure Blake was behind him — he probably wouldn’t last long anyway.

Blake was trailing behind, a smile still plastered across his features, he began jogging to catch up to Will’s pace, barely managing to not spill his bowl in the process.

“What’s your name then?” Blake spouted after the silence seemed to get to him.

“Schofield.” 

Will looked over at Blake, and was met with an expectant stare.

“...William. Will.” 

Blake pursed his lips and nodded as if appraising his name, it seemed to get his seal of approval.

“Met a lot of Wills here. Lot a Toms too though, so I can’t say anything,” he mused. Will snorted at that, what an odd thing to say.

“Your name’s Tom then, I suppose?” 

“Oh, yes. Tom Blake. Thomas Reginald Blake to be exact,” he puffed up his chest in mock-bravado. Will felt the edge of his lips twitch into a smile.

“How posh, lot of expectations in a name like that,” Will said, although he wasn’t sure why. 

“Not really, got my brother for all that,” Blake remarked, bringing the tin to his mouth to noisily slurp some soup. Will saw a shiver go through his body.

“Hmm, not good as usual? Get used to it. If you thought the shite they fed you in training was bad, wait ‘til you’re out there,” Will said with a tight smile. 

Blake pulls the tin down from his mouth, some of the broth dripping down his chin. As they approached Will’s assigned tent, he dropped down and rummaged through his pack laying on the grass, and soon revealed a small can of prune-and-apple preserves.

“Excellent! These were my favorite back in training, I could eat a whole case if they’d let me,” Blake caught the can as Will tossed it to him. The sun beat down on Will’s neck, and he could feel the drops begin to drip into his collar as they settled down to eat their poor excuse of a meal in the grass. Blake fetched a knife from his pack to open the can.

“Well I’m glad someone likes it,” Will’s face soured as Blake finally cracked the can open and began shoveling the red-brown sludge into his mouth with his bare hands.

Will sat in silence, watching Blake eat the preserves. How the hell someone could so passionately eat that syrupy rubbish, he couldn’t begin to fathom. As Blake began to finish, Will observed a thoughtful expression overtake his features and for the first time — in Will’s brief experience — his face gave hints of apprehension.

“So what’s it like out there, anyhow?” Will sucked in a breath, he shouldn’t act surprised, this question always came. “Tell me honestly, I know we were sent here ‘cos they needed replacements…” 

Blake adjusted his pack hanging over his shoulders, he still had all his equipment on, even while sitting down. Will let the silence hang between them, thoughts swam around his head, different tones began to form in his mouth — annoyance, sincerity, a mix of both — before Blake spoke again.

“I heard over two hundred men were killed, just here — in less than a week.” 

Will let all the air escape from his lungs in a single breath, setting down his empty tin between his legs, picking a few blades of grass in between his legs.

“I suppose you’ll find out soon enough, won’t you?” Will grit out.

Poorly-concealed dejection spread across Blake’s face, and the thorn shifted in Will’s heart. He closed his eyes and started again.

“Well, if it’s honesty you want… it’s not what they make it out to be in the posters, it isn’t something you really want to write home to mom about, anyway. You just do it, not much heroics to it.” 

Blake snorted, and pushed Will’s shoulder, “You’re not very cheery, are you?” 

Will stared back blankly, the wheels in his mind seeming to catch on each other, all scolding words immediately lost in the clamour of overlapping thoughts. 

“I suppose not,” Will stated after a long pause. A bubble formed in Will’s throat, the edge of his lips began to twitch up, and his chest began to throb, and for a moment he thought he was going to burst into tears.

“Oh, shite. Sorry,” Blake stuttered suddenly, and reached out to almost touch Will’s shoulder before retracting his hand. Will looked up in surprise, and it suddenly became clear that he wasn’t about to cry, but the beginnings of laughter were bubbling up from him.

“ _No_ , don’t be—” “I got syrup on your uniform,” Blake interrupted, gesturing to his shoulder with a red-stained finger. 

“Oh.” 

Will looked down at his left shoulder where Blake had pushed him earlier, a large dollop of plum-and-apple preserve smeared along the faded green. The shaking of his ribs boils over and laughter spilled out from his lips in full peals, his bones aching at the unfamiliar motion. 

Blake’s own laughter joined his. Will observed how his own laugh was low and rough, but Blake’s was quite light and boyish. 

Now that he was fully facing Blake — and no longer through the unforgiving lens of disdain — he noticed he was all-around quite a handsome fellow.

Very different than himself, in many ways. Blake’s hair was dark and curly, and despite being a few days due for a wash and smashed under a helmet for hours in the heat, it still maintained a dencency, albeit a bit rugged. Will’s own hair was straw, in both color and touch. Ever since he was a child he was diligent in keeping his hair clean at least most of the time, it was prone to sticking into greasy clumps, and he hated the feeling against his scalp. 

Blake’s stature was sturdy, by the look of his hands, he was raised on hard labor. He carried it well though. Will was tall and thin, never the runt of the bunch, but his bones ached in the winter and he’d taken a few more punches than he dealt. 

Their eyes were the most starkly different, though. They both had blue eyes, but Blake’s appeared to be captured drops from some far off sea, somewhere warm and exotic. Will shook his head, internally laughing at the thoughts his mind conjured. He was always too soppy. He has his mother to blame, she filled his shelves with poetry books which in turn filled his mind with silly little snippets of rhymed words and crude similes. He’d write them down, when he had the mind to.

Gazing at Blake, a random line occurred to him from the recesses of his memory. 

_Are you the new person drawn toward me?_

_To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what_

_you suppose;_

It was a bit from a poem in Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. He couldn’t remember the rest of it, and internally filed it away for later. 

Will blinked, a hand had appeared in his vision and was waving frantically. He looked up at Blake’s face, his smile lines carving a pleasant statue of him. 

“Are you usually this airy? I swear I could _see_ your brain float off somewhere!” Blake said.

“Not always…” Will felt the tips of his ears burn. He wasn’t embarrassed, really. At least he was telling himself so. 

“No worries, I can talk enough for the both of us then,” Blake smiled as he leaned back to get comfortable. “As long as you keep giving me the prune-and-apple of course.”

Will smiled to himself, and picked a few more blades of grass from under himself. 

From then on, they became quick friends. Quicker than any friendship Will had made previously, in or out of the war. 

It was partially the circumstances of warfare. They slept within yards of each other, they ran laps together, shared meals with each other, sat around with the other lads at night, talked about women and told stories and wrestled. Blake did most of the talking, most of the lewd storytelling. He got on quick with everyone it seemed, but he always had a way of working Will in. He always asked for his input, or begged him to repeat a funny story he had told Blake one-on-one over breakfast. They also fought together, inevitably.

Blake’s first station on the frontlines was pretty mild, all things considered. There were no major shellings, no surprise gassing, most nights they could even get more than a wink of sleep if they wanted. But on the third night, one of Blake’s friends from training was sniped while taking a piss — just standing in a vulnerable spot, not his fault, simply didn’t read the warning sign in the dark. Will didn’t see it, but he hears the shot in the night. He fell back asleep shortly after. The next morning Blake looked pale over some tea a few of them were brewing in a tiny fire they made within the trench walls. Not big enough to smoke of course, they just liked their morning tea. It’s good for a man to maintain his rituals, Will supposed. 

The boy — John — Blake told him, was already carried away. He had been close by when it happened, apparently, called in a medic but he was probably dead the moment the bullet hit him. Blake seemed shaken for the next few days, not enough to earn the concern or jibes from the others, but Will could tell by the distance in his eyes that he was affected.

“I’ve just never held a dead person before. I’ve killed my fair share of animals— but..” Blake confessed to him one night while standing shivering next to Will, both ankle-deep in muck, it had rained most of the day. 

“Do you get used to it, then?” Blake asked suddenly, it was dark but Will could tell he was staring at him. His voice was hushed, as it always was at night, but it sounded especially small in the moment. 

“No, not really,” he replied after thinking for a moment. It was a lie, it did become easier, for him at least. How easy it was to take comfort in filth and violence when it was all that was gifted to you. Most the men here would go mad if they didn’t twist themselves into finding a sick comfort in it, some even a pleasure. _Least it wasn’t me_ , one would think as a fellow soldier got his head caved in by a grenade explosion — _serves him right_ , to any enemy that stood between him and going home.

Will felt _something_ burning within Blake, something good and better than all of this. Perhaps it was just his foolish thoughts getting the better of him.

A sudden crash of _something_ running through the bushes near him chased Will out of the depth of his thoughts, bringing his attention to his direct left. On instinct, Will’s hand went to his rifle, laying on the leaves beside him. His hand hovered over the gun until the culprit emerged from the foliage — a distressed looking Jameson struggling with his fly. 

“Oi, sorry Schofield! Emergency piss before training starts,” he wrenched down his fly and turned, with what Will supposed was intended to be courtesy, to relieve himself against a tree. 

Will glanced up at the sky, noting the sun's journey since the last time he checked. He shook his head in disbelief, his thoughts really did carry him away at times, more than he’d be happy to admit.

Will pointedly ignored the man — still — pissing beside him, as he gathered his pack and rifle to walk back to camp. He moved in haste to avoid having to make idle chat with Jameson, which mostly revolved around obnoxious talltales recalling his exploits with the opposite sex or “some bloody Jerry I picked off the other night” — both genres of his stories stunk so bad of shit Will couldn’t stand hearing them. 

He got a few good paces back to camp before Jameson clambered in step next to him, still fiddling with his damned zipper. 

“Impatient bastard, I called for you to wait for me!” Jameson hooted, knocking his shoulder into Will’s. 

Will tried not to recoil at the touch. 

“Hmm, didn’t hear you.” 

As they made the short trek back into camp, Jameson chittered the whole way about a four-horned buck he _swore_ he saw the other night while having a wank out in the woods. As they exited the treeline, the temperature turned up immediately, the midday sun could still be unbearable despite the increasing coolness of the night. Even the flies were miserable in this onslaught, with the usual swarms that pestered the camp noticeably absent. Despite the heat, there was a faint breeze that trickled over the plains with soft exhales, providing Will with enough optimism to not completely dread the asinine training session he was about to endure. 

Of the handful of rudimentary skills they were expected to hone, he understood least of all their need to march a series of routed paths that each man had probably stomped over at least a thousand times every few months. They claimed it kept them fit, but Will bet they were simply afraid of letting a bunch of teenagers be idle for too long — lecherous behavior and all that. Will didn’t really see the sense in it now. He hadn’t minded the routine marches previously, when he had a good partner to pass the blister-forming miles with.

Will walked solemnly to the center of camp, where they usually gathered to receive their training orders, his mind whirring into the comfortable white noise he maintained when surrounded by these strangers he knows too well. Strangely, a good number of men were not yet gathered in the heart of camp, but a large group were in a circle around the space they all hung around at dinner — a small uproar was coming from them. Will continued on, they were in all probability fighting over a stale piece of bread or a smutty magazine one of them pawned off a delivery driver.

He didn’t realize Jameson had stopped a few paces behind him before he heard his shrill voice from a distance. 

“Aye, that’s your boy, isn’t it?” He said, the shock failing to hide in his voice. 

“What?” Will sounded back, turning around with plain annoyance emanating off of him, if anything to berate the horse-toothed boy for his unintelligible blathering.

Jameson met his seething expression with a scoff and gestured over to the buzzing crowd. “Go see for yourself then,” he said before jogging over to join the others. 

Will’s eyebrows drew together, and he stood firmly in place. He noticed his heart had suddenly begun beating furiously in his chest, so hard he could taste the pump of blood on the back of his tongue. A spark had given birth within him, catching on something and bursting into a small flame. He cupped the fire with a protectiveness, not daring to let it engulf him as it threatened to grow. He wouldn’t let it take hold of him, he couldn’t keep allowing himself combust into this unspeakable thing. He’d learned this lesson a dozen times over — hope was a dangerous, seductive thing, it could burn him alive from the inside out if he let it. It had no place here if he wanted to escape this alive and not frothing at the mouth or staring dumbly into the sky. 

But still, he held his flame with a ferocity he couldn’t give words to. His eyes scanned every head in the crowd, searching, he wouldn’t admit for what. Then, a tall blond boy shifted in the bustle and the fire burst from Will as if doused with oil, erupting in an invisible column from within him. His ears rushed with a thousand praises, just as many curses, and perhaps a few lines of poetry as well. 

Blake’s face, graced with a small smirk was poking out from the gathering of other mousy-haired boys. The others were all gathered around him, giving him pats on the shoulder, or shouting gleefully at him. Will’s pack dropped from him, hitting the grass with a clatter, quickly followed by a slightly more carefully tossed rifle. He approached the crowd with great strides, his eyes narrowed in on Blake who was still distracted with another boy who was grasping his shoulder. The fire raged on, he was caught between bliss and depthless pain. 

Will began pushing through the group, not bothering with his usual reserved politeness. One man shot him a nasty look for his blunt pushing, before turning to Will and his eyebrows shot to his hairline.

“Blake, it’s your boy,” he shouted over his shoulder, deeper into the crowd. Will blinked at the phrasing and pushed — _finally_ — into the center, and was instantly face-to-face with a wide-eyed Blake. 

The boys around them still squaked and jibed with each other, a litany of questions flung from them, assumingly to Blake. But both boys stood in silence, only staring at each other. Blake’s eyebrows had turned upward, his lips were pressed together creating a thin line across his face. The air between them seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment, Will could sense a burn forming at the base of his neck where his hair and uniform didn’t protect him. 

“You’re gonna catch a fly, gaping like that,” Blake said, a small smile threatening to form as he continued to stare across the three feet of distance between them. Will’s jaw snapped up, he didn’t even realize it had gone slack. 

“You’re back.” 

Will choked on the sentence, and felt quite foolish for the way his voice broke. He became very aware of the eyes and ears clamouring around them. 

“Can’t get rid of me, it seems. No matter how hard you try,” Blake closed the distance between them and pulled Will into an embrace. Will’s arms twitched at his side for half a second as his brain melted into a puddle of senseless words and emotions in his skull. Will slowly reached his arms around Blake, feeling brown curls tickle the place where his neck met his chin and a shuddering exhale from the other boy.

Will lingered only a wink past the common length of hugs, they were in public and even war had to allow for some dignity between men, and he felt a low heat come to his cheeks as another man wolf-whistled from a distance. Will let his arms fall slack, but Blake’s hands only moved to Will’s shoulders, grasping him with an urgency. 

“Thank you, f-for everything really,” Blake stammered, staring down at the dirt between their feet. “For warning the Devons, for telling my brother, for saving my life,” Blake let out a shaking laugh. 

“Bloody fucking German, I can’t _believe_ I tried to help the bastard, you honestly should have left—” 

“It’s alright.” Will said softly, interrupting Blake’s rambling. 

Blake’s hands fell from his shoulders, and Will noted the subtle wince that briefly flashed across Blake’s face, his hands twitching to his side before he must have thought the better of it and lowered them as closed fists to his side. 

Will watched this minute display with hawkish intensity. He stared down Blake’s blatant poker face, then his side where he reached for on instinct. The dots had begun to connect in his mind — appearing without notice, the pained expression, the bloody oddness of this entire situation…

The realization must have been brilliantly apparent on his face as Blake thrusted his hands up in placation, “Scho, let’s talk about this, it really isn’t a big deal or nothin’ I swear.” 

“I can’t _believe_ you bloody ran off from treatment, all for us poor saps! You’re a real one, Blake,” one man crooned and slapped Blake on the back. 

Blake laughed and nodded, but at least had the decency to look ashamed about it when he met Will’s eyes. The flame within Will’s body split into two and struggled for fuel within him, and as the seconds wore on he felt the angrier flame begin to grow. 

“Alright boys, enough playing around, it’s time for training — get along!” Captain Bailey’s voice whipped from behind the crowd, and their jeers quited instantly. Bailey was still relatively new, transferred in with the rest of the replacements, and he had a cruelty inherent in him that made him quite suited for this line of work. 

The few dozen or so men around them instantly shot off in the direction of the march route, their voices dulled into hushed whispers with the occasional glance toward Blake. WIll and Blake stayed where they were, both losing in a battle for words.

“Get going, now — even you Blake,” Bailey approached them, his eyes steely as he sized Blake up. 

“Yes, sir,” Blake nodded and stared intently at the ground.

“Your devotion to this war is quite something, even if executed foolishly,” he stated without a hint of care. “But don’t let your lauded heroics get in the way of your actual duty here,” Will looked between Blake and Bailey in shock.

_You’re just going to let him?_

“Since it seems you left everything but your helmet back wherever the hell you were, which leaves you all but useless to us, you’ll receive new equipment tomorrow,” he sighed out as he walked to join the others.

“And don’t expect any more favors or special treatment — now get _going._ ” He spat, and spurred both Will and Blake to quickly follow suit and meet the others at the head of the march route. 

Will let the silence between them settle, his fingertips itching with a mix of emotions that threatened to flare out at any time. They fell into line, standing the appropriate distance from each other, both staring at the head of the man in front of them.

“Scho—” Blake started.

“ _No_ not here,” Will said sternly, “We will talk later, in private, now get at attention.” 

Blake swallowed dryly and turned his head forward again, and marched the entire route engulfed in the thick silence that weighed down upon Will’s shoulders with a heavier weight than before. Caught between barely holding back his desire to pull Blake aside and wrap him in a bone-crushing hug whispering “you’re alive you’re alive, oh God, you’re _alive_ ,” like a madman, or bashing him over the head with the back of his rifle. 

Will spared a glance over at Blake about a mile into their march, and realized the man was lightly grasping his side.

 _Idiot_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey folks, sorry this took forever to pump out. i was finishing up a production of Julius Caesar, and then COVID came and fucked our shit, I'm on extended spring break, and now I'm back home for the rest of the semester! But-- on the bright side of all of this, I now have time to devote to cranking this bad boy out (and the mental need to distract myself with this whoop whoop)
> 
> follow me @poorbrutus on tumblr 
> 
> also hmu if you wanna beta :*

**Author's Note:**

> 1917 was TOO EPIC and now it lives in my peon brain rent free. 
> 
> Blake is coming next chapter so strap in for the DRAMA, the INTRIGUE, and the absolute LONGING of it all!


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